


A Zephyr, A Gust, A Gale

by GarnyCard



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Derse/Prospit Royalty, F/F, M/M, POV Second Person, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-13
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-11-13 19:09:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11191524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GarnyCard/pseuds/GarnyCard
Summary: Inspired by A Spark, A Flame, A Fire by callmearcturus. Reading ASAFAF is necessary to understand the plot.The second-in-line to the Prospitian throne is bargained away to the Prince of their rivaling kingdom, Derse.In Prospit, the Dersite heir Dave Strider learns secrets of Prospit from the Prospitian heir John Egbert. His sister, Rose Lalonde, uncovers secrets stashed away in ancient texts.So, the plot diverges from ASAFAF and will contain spoilers. Spoilers!





	1. Take a Body to the Light

**Author's Note:**

  * For [callmearcturus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmearcturus/gifts), [sunflowerwonder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerwonder/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Spark, A Flame, A Fire](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8118997) by [callmearcturus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmearcturus/pseuds/callmearcturus). 



> I've added so many new elements that it's hardly ASAFAF, except it still works with the ASAFAF world.

BE THE FORESEEN HEIR ==>  
   
Your elbow slams into the door of the carriage. The impact shoots jarring pain into your already splintering head. Against all of your efforts, the haunting alien screeches still spear you. Next to you, your sibling is curled up, suppressing any sounds that threaten to leave his mouth. Another howl of pain leaves you both reeling.  
   
Deep murmurings that vaguely resemble Jake’s cut through the haze of your swelled mind. Dave nudges closer. You adjust your arm to accommodate. For a moment you're reminded of Roxy.  
   
A gunshot fractures the somber atmosphere. Your heartbeat spikes to new measures. Dave trembles. You hug him closer. More mutterings come from outside.  
   
“Not fuckin’ worth it.” You and Dave are past embracing each other, rather you’re closer to squeezing the life out of the other. If you weren’t mistaken—which you desperately hope you were—there was a troll outside the carriage. Instinctively, you scuff your boots against the floor to be as far from the door as possible. Dave is crammed. Neither of you care. His breathing is shaky, the moisture is caught on the backside of your hands. You’re in his lap desperately trying to remain undetected.  
   
You were insane to believe that the troll didn’t hear you between the whimpers and the thudding of your boots.  
   
With a crash, the glass door collides with the bench less than an arm’s length away from you. Your boots scratch the bench, trying to find purchase in the folds of fabric. Dave wheezes as the air is ejected from his lungs.  
   
A gray hand slithers its way into the carriage, catching a grip on your boot. You’re yanked forwards with a shriek while Dave tags along, his body dragged across the bench. Dave digs his heels into the cushion crevices and pushes, pulling you away from the carriage door. He yelps in your ear, but his grasp remains. Air is expelled from you by Dave’s secure grip, but then your head lurches forward by the hair. Fire arises from millions of points on your head, scorching your senses. The hot tears rapidly trail down your cheeks.  
   
The troll has a crushing grip on your arm. You are unable to assist Dave as he is beaten into submission. You’re left with cold Derse air in your lungs. You hear a gasp, your ears exposed to the full brunt of nature.  
   
Everything is a blur. The only registrable things are the overgrown blades of grass on your face and the sound of someone’s voice. Perhaps those words originate from your mouth, but you wouldn't know. You can’t decipher what’s happening as it happens. The words and actions mesh into an intense ball of throbbing uncertainty. You try to remember the word Dirk used, but the haze has returned along with the constant pounding. Migraine. Nothing is coherent. You lie in acquiescence. Waves upon waves of pain roll through your head.  
   
Then everything snaps into sudden clarity.  
   
The crisp air highlights the aura of dread, your face pressed into the thick grass. A night crawler uses your arms as a bridge across the sea of green. The moonlight illuminates your pale complexion and the faces of your aggressors, their expressions contorted in malice. In the distance, fireflies continue their courtship dances. The silence of the forest is an aria of gloom, a preternatural occurrence. Your breathing is ragged and unevenly paced.  
   
_"Move, you slugbeast!"_  
   
You don’t move. Your limbs are locked. But in your body’s reluctance, the world continues in an orchestra of horror.  
   
Firstly, there is a wicked cackle accompanied by the sick sound of metal on flesh. The rustling of grass echoes a message.  
   
Then, an anguished scream of pure agony ends in a dying gurgle. A body collapses in your perceivable area.  
   
Finally, you hear a screech that trails into a sob. The last two cries are distinctly human and it hits you, the realization smacks you harder than your father, leaving you breathless with trepidation circulating your veins.  
   
The dread petrifies you as you survey your surroundings. You hope Dave is safe. That he somehow escapes. That he won't be tortured.  
   
You futilely try to ignore death’s cold grasp. But you can't ignore Jake's stifled whimpers as he dams his suffering, nightmares, and tears. You can't ignore his quick, shaky breathing or the way his body spasms and quakes. The troll, on the other hand, can, and he maliciously smirks. He speaks to the others in their tongue and they guffaw. Their poor excuses for laughter are penetrated by Dave’s shrieks of heartbreak as he succumbs to his nightmares, undoubtedly sensing the life ebb from Jake.  
   
_"Move! Now!”_  
   
Dave is grieving, Jake is dying, and you—you are moving. You fluidly obey the prompts in your mind and succumb as well. You accept, only because you are certain that it is not a horrorterror, but rather a spirit prepared to enact your will.  
   
You twirl and dance, your anatomy enhanced. Your body is foreign to you, your thoughts alien. However, you delight in it, the feeling of human adrenaline coursing through your veins.  
   
You swoop onto another group of trolls. Despite being a child, you can still knock them off their bases. They crumple like paper. You suspect that it isn't of your doing.  
   
Dave’s bawls halt. You hesitate for a moment, pivoting towards the carriage. Then he leaps out, giggling maniacally. Oh, it's not Dave.  
   
Silently, you make eye contact. With a firm nod, you resume your actions. Occasionally, bright white light assaults your vision. Sometime during the fray, Dave finds Jake’s pistols, tossing one to you. Whatever being that possessed you was knowledgeable enough to operate the weapon. Gunshots ring around you. The trolls skitter away, shrieking in their whine of a language. Dave’s face is twisted in an odd expression. Your faces are bathed in starlight as you relish in your victory, if only for a moment.  
   
_"We’re both lucky tonight.”_  
   
You sink to your knees as everything goes black. Your body is languid and your mind swimming. You hear a thud nearby. You notice the absence of the otherly presence because it is replaced with a pressure that revives your migraine.  
   
You hear snickering, you feel the ache in your limbs, and you lose consciousness.

BE THE RESTING CHILD==>  
   
You are the resting child, although you don’t know it. No one’s ever aware that they’re asleep until they wake up. At least, Rose told you that and she’s reputable, with all that “bookish malarkey” she adores. You can also bolster that with first-hand experience. Another thing you detest, Rose’s constant inerrancy.  
   
But returning to the topic.  
   
Your head is groggy as you stretch and slowly wake up, roused by a distant caw. You flop onto your side. Your legs roll off the cushions and hit the bench across from you, your knee bumping gently into the bench beneath you. Your brows knit as you are reminded of an ache in your shins.  
   
Finally settling on your bottom, you gather cushion folds as you drape yourself over the bench. You give a sigh and feel serenity consume you. You would typically be set for another bout of rest, but the crows above continue their cries…  
   
You actually did fall asleep, if only for a few moments. You would have stayed that way if it wasn’t for the incessant but familiar pecks to the head. This time, you actually have to address the beast.  
   
“What’s’it, Roxy?” you groan. The crow ceases its assaults. It skitters down your arm and levels its eyes to meet yours. Your eyes flutter open, the crow staring back with its own beady pair. It’s painstakingly bright out. You squint, but the crow butts your nose when you do. “Fine, fine, Rox.”  
   
When you commune with the crows, you can only assume that your eyes glow when you see the red light reflected back from their glossy feathers. You manage to wrench your eyelids open, a major feat, and focus on the crow.  
   
_“Dave! Oh my God, are you okay? Please tell me you are.”_ It’s Roxy, but at the same time, it’s not. Roxy would never be so shaken, her voice would never wobble, and she would never express distress, even if she was pierced through the chest. The wavering expression of emotion sends quakes into your soul. Her next words shove a sinking sensation in your stomach. _“Oh my God, Dave. I want to tell you I love you too, dearie. I’m… I just… wake Rosey up too, Starshade…”_  
   
The sincerity of her promulgation of love is eerie as if she’ll never have a chance to tell you again. You try to shrug off the murky atmosphere but it clings to you and refuses to leave.  
   
The crow irately flaps its wings. You and Roxy are too emotional for the crow. You set your mouth in a straight line and try to calm yourself down.  
   
“Roxy. Roxy, I’m okay. What’s wrong?” As you say this, you shake Rose’s leg, who rests at your left. She pushes your hand away with her toes, grumbling something under her breath. “I’m okay too. Rose—” you break eye contact for a moment. To your surprise, your sister has multiple bruises on her arms. Her expression is tight, her eyes are shut. Your face contorts with concern. “—Rose only has a few bruises. Nothing that’ll kill her.”  
   
The crow convulses with puppet-like movement but returns to your eye level. _“Davey, oh Davey, now isn’t a time for death jokes.”_ Not an appropriate time?  
   
The realization hits you. Someone died. It wasn’t Rose, she nudged you. Your heart accelerates when you notice that you _aren’t moving_ and Jake is _nowhere to be seen_. A guttural whine rises from your throat. You whip your head to see the door, where the sun’s pure rays blind you. Ignoring the stab to your eyes, you pry the door open, almost falling off of the two-feet high step at the sight of carnage.  
   
Fallen carcasses ooze a rainbow spectrum of color, a putrid smell of death wafting around. The bodies of the dead lay slain, limbs bent at crooked angles. Among those bodies, one bleeds a deep scarlet onto purple tunic. His skin is ghostly, the blood drained.  
   
It's Jake.  
   
Humiliatingly, your voice squeaks, the words dying in your throat.  
   
Terror revamps your body. “Roxy!” you shout. “Roxy Roxy no! Tell me I’m dreaming! It’s not real. I’ve done this before…” You inhale sharply, tears pricking your eyes. This wasn’t real. You’ve done this plenty of times before. You’ve learned to control your nightmares, to not let them take a hold of you.  
   
Leaning on the doorway, your legs threaten to give out. You are reminded again of the terrible ache in your shins. Your focus tunnels in on Jake. If you were asleep he would greet you, reassure you, tell you he's okay.  
   
But when Jake’s corpse fails to rise and the aura of death invades your pores, you sink onto your bottom, collapsing in on yourself. “Roxy… Roxy Roxy Roxy Roxy…” You dissolve into tears. You can feel the death emanating off of the corpses. “Roxy Roxy Roxy—” you melt into delirium. It’s all too real to be a dream. Your hands rise to your chest, you can feel the emptiness, the way your chest caves in at jagged angles. You can feel your heart palpitate in uneven spasms, trying to accommodate for the empty space in your soul that was inhabited by Jake.  
   
This always happened when it was real. An unfillable void.  
   
Two arms wrapped around you in an embrace that was your lifeline the previous night, which is hurtling back in full clarity. Rose tips her head onto your shoulder, her delicate hands around your own. “Dave… this is entirely real. I s—” she fumbles with her words, despite being a literary savant. “I witnessed it.”  
   
You sit there, numb, empty, and hollow.  
   
“I know. I know and it really f—” the prickling sensation soon balances around the entirety of your lower lids, but you remember, you’ve prohibited yourself from crying. A memory meanders its way into your conscious.  
   
_“Drop everything! The prince has stubbed his toe and needs to cry about it!” Rose said in a terse voice. Her face was red, her shoulders taut, but not a single tear dripped down her cheeks._  
   
You blink furiously. “It really fucking hurts Rose. It hurts every time! Why did it have to be Jake‽” Your throat constricts, but you have to wind on or else the pitiful tears will fall. Your words spiral out of control, your metaphors losing themselves. You know your sisters are consuming the information; Rose will undoubtedly use this as entertainment for a long time. However, you’re not exactly talking to them. You’re just trying to formulate words so that you don’t dwell on death. You’ve wasted an infinite amount of clock faces contemplating why. Every time.  
   
“Dave. Roxy is attempting to interact with us,” Rose says after an uncertain amount of time. She's using her calmest tone of voice, bumping shoulders with you. It’s not condescending like how it normally is. You appreciate that. You worry on your lip, focusing on your facade.  
   
There’s a new crow nipping your feet, trying to seize your attention. You suppose Roxy was far too emotional for the other crow, as they happen to develop stress under such circumstances. You lift the bird to your eyes. If it could, the crow’s eyes would go soft, like it can sympathize with you, like it was an old friend. You know it can’t; you know it won't. Endless hours alone in the halls of Derse has proven that.  
   
_“Davey, you gotta tell the guards t’ take you to Prospit, Royal Orders and all that. Tell them t’ take Jakey with ya. Janey’ll take good care of the two of ya ‘till Dirky comes t’ get you. Got that, Davey? Tell Rosey too.”_ You nod along and relay the message to Rose. You rock-paper-scissor for the responsibility and Rose loses. She scowls but continues the message.  
   
You sag, your posture could go to hell. You mull over what happened last night and the few things you managed to glean from memory. Suffocating yourself with a pillow, you switch gears and wonder about your sudden vacation to Prospit. It’ll be your first time outside of Derse or at least the first you’ll be able to recall. Rose finds you groaning and complaining into the pillow.  
   
“It’ll be hotter than Satan’s ass there. It’s already uncomfortable here, and we’re still in Derse. Fuck, I hope that they’ll have some loose clothes, and fuck, they’ll be gold, won’t they? Won’t be able to wear my Strider crest with pride, that shit’s deluxe,” you sigh.  
   
You can only assume that Rose follows your great brotherly example and places a pillow on her own face when her muffled voice agrees with yours.  
   
“It’ll be a tragedy, Dave. However, the brilliance of the Strider crest withers when compared to the superiority of the Lalonde crest. At least the Lalonde crest properly represents the Kingdom with the rich plum and fuschia, not those hideous shades of rouge and clementine.”  
   
You secretly smile, snarking back. Rose doesn't berate you for your language. You weren’t going to dwell on anything, you decide. Bickering with Rose sets up a familiar pattern. However, you can't help but feel lost, you can't help the dull ache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAaaand there's chapter one.   
> I'm mostly setting up the plot, so that's why it's so short.
> 
> Another note: I'm writing the kids as their ages(11), which is why Dave and Rose are so different from ASAFAF.


	2. 1.5 Take a Body to the Light

BE THE MAGNIFICENT LADY ==>

You are the magnificent lady, and you’re caught in quite the dilemma. You should have kept an eye on the cobalt and mahogany blood, but the candy blood threw quite the fit! Even with your years of experience with the grub mothers, you were still pitifully inept when entrusted with the care of your species' young. You sigh, bestowing the candy blood to the olive blood. She giggles, rubbing cartilaginous nubs with the wiggler. Thankfully, the olive blood is the only reasonable one in your band of pupae.  
   
The path the duo took was clearly indicated by the odd placement of natural objects. A branch was broken in two, each half tossed aside, left to lay horizontally against the grain of the woods, occurrences like that. You scale a handful of treacherously craggy slopes, and once you reach the hilltop, you see where your captors are. You almost light up when the shrieks of children reach your tipped ears.  
   
“No, no no, I can’t see, no,” the girl sobs, trembling. You are halfway down the hill when you spot your telepaths. You stride to them, looping your arms around their waists and startling them. The cobalt blood yelps, the rust blood only frowns and furrows her eyebrows.  
   
“Drop her, _now_!”  
   
Your heads whip to the scene. The gold blood wretches the girl by her forearm, pressing the knife to her neck. She wails and the young man is in action. He stalks toward the gold blood, but in his rage, the blue blood lands a fearsome strike on the nape of his neck, concealed in his blind spot. A smack resounds. Your girls wince. The gold blood catches the man and his knife sinks into the human’s abdomen.  The sight is unbearable. You whisper into your girl’s ears.  
   
“Vriska, get into that girl’s head. The man is gone.” Vriska’s face hardened. Perhaps you struck her bloodpusher. The man is struggling for breath, his throat caught between a whine and whimper. “Think about it like it’s revenge if you prefer.” Vriska stops struggling and goes limp. The girl, abandoned, but possessed, is listless. The man has ceased breathing. The human girl rises, and you were begrudgingly correct.  
   
“There’s a boy in there.” Aradia points to the carriage. “May I?” she grins. Aradia still unnerves you. You uneasily nod, and Aradia slackens. A boyishly maniacal giggle launches from the carriage. They both can go awry, and you were hoping that those human children were capable enough to defeat your captors. As the Dolorosa, you weren’t intended for such scuffles, only a quiet life in the sun and desert with the grub mothers. It wasn’t typical for a jade blood to partake in violence, only when it came to the grub mother’s safety. You suppose that being an anomaly was alright.  
   
With a screech, your skin is brighter than the moon. Your other troll brethren did not take kindly to light, which you used to your advantage. You gracefully leap to the foot of the hill. Now, you were not concerned about concealing yourself. You would enjoy their blood once you finished.  
   
\---  
   
You berate Vriska when the girl collapses. Yet again, Vriska has proven herself to be untamable. The boy, on the other hand, is snuffling in his sleep, his legs loosely crossed and his arms pillows. Aradia, with her sharper skills, was able to lull him to rest rather than drain him dry. You loop a child in each arm, carrying them to their ornate carriage. Now, you have to make a terribly hard decision. Without hesitation, you commanded Aradia to wipe the guard’s mind’s of your presence, but should you let the children remember their friend’s death? Or cleanse their minds of the tragedy? The boy sleeps fitfully, mumbling things in his sleep. “‘M sorry. ‘M sorry.”  
   
It was never your decision to make. Their friend will be dead no matter what course of action you take.  
   
Aradia coaxes their memories, softening them. They will not remember how he died, nor will they know many other details. She waves her hands around them, muttering a few things under her breath. They whimper, but Aradia doesn’t flinch.  
   
You had always wondered about Aradia’s life.  
   
You push your intrusive thoughts away and instruct the pupae to remain with the children. You, on the other hand, are heading back to the slave wagon to alert the other pupa of their newfound freedom. Once you inelegantly scramble down the craggy hill slopes, you begin to retrace your previous steps to the wagon. The wagon has been your place of rest while you traveled along the south side of the Prospitian/Alternian mountains. Your destination was the southeast end of Derse, where you would slip back into Alternia, a vast distance between you and the Alternian throne. Thankfully, you have ridden yourself of slave status.  
   
You dwell on the pupae and wrigglers as you radiate moonlight, illuminating your way. Not even a quarter of the pupae are anywhere near full pupation. They are all so meek, barely past being a grub. Tragedy is a common trait among them, despite the deep range of unsaturated color. You nurtured a newly hatched wriggler, rejected by the caste system. As you recall your first meeting with the wriggler, Nepeta dashes to you, the coddled wriggler squirming and crying.  
   
“Porrim, Porrim! The wriggler won't stop crying and I did everything you told me to!” Unfortunately, your lack of parenting is inherited by the pupae. Nepeta earnestly rocks the wriggler, her bare feet bouncing on the loamy forest floor and the wriggler’s screeches stagger with each hop. You collect the wriggler, wrapping the poor thing in your arms. You give Nepeta a gratuitous smile, bending at the waist to peck her forehead. She beams. You do the same to the wriggler, shooshing it with kisses. The wriggler, however, only erupts into another fit of wails.  
   
“Thank you, Nepeta. Shoosh, shoosh. Let’s return to the wagon, but quickly now, I have, shoosh. Shoosh. I have some delightful news I must share!” The wriggler is pacified as you lead Nepeta back to the wagon. You sigh deeply as if many weights have been lifted from your chest. With the next inhale, another set of problems settles in their place. However, you are confident that no matter what arises, you will be safe. As long as these children are safe.  
   
BE THE GRIM PUPA== >

You are the grim child, kneeling in the wild grasses. Your hands are splayed in the dirt, searching for the roots of the towering grasses. Vriska is sulking a few feet away. She kicks the corpse of the gold blood, muttering under her breath. The air is crisp, the night is dark. The moon, which is full, hides behind the clouds as if to escape the site of murder. You're grinning from ear to ear because tonight will be an entertaining night. Already, you've been allowed to posses a boy, royalty no less! But the fun begins when the laments of the deceased reach your ears. You rise, approaching them.  
   
Mystically, the souls of men rise from their bodies like smoke. Their spirits wind skyward, undisturbed by the breeze. They ooze out of their wounds, astounded by their faded, grotesque existences. Your grin can only grow wider. You feet lead you to death, but you delight in it.  
   
You approach the ones who have abused you the most, the ones who forced you to telepathically carry the supplies until you fainted. The ones who hurt you or your friends with kicks and punches. The ones that the Dolorosa told you to avoid, in fear that they would kill you. They babble nothings about forgiveness and revival. You share a few words with them before you wave them away.  
   
Then, you finally speak to the man.  
   
He looks frazzled and lost, his hair is a mess and his glasses broken. You say a quick hello and his head whips to you, his face alight as if you reminded him of someone. But his hopeful expression is quashed when he examines your face.  
   
“Cripes, dead for less than a day and already I'm tormented!” His eyebrows are knit in concern. He sits on his corpse, so peculiar, but again, you can't blame him. His arms are crossed and guarded, his eyes downcast, so it's almost as if he's pouting. This makes you laugh.  
   
“I'm Aradia,” you say. His eyes snap to you again. You sit crisscrossed, smiling with your Cheshire grin.  
   
“I'm Jake,” he spits, eyeing you suspiciously. “Say, I've never been dead before. Would you kindly fill me in on how this works?” He gestures to himself, and then his body. My, he's also got a sense of snarky humor.  
   
“I haven't been dead before either, sir. Always wondered how it felt, of course. I'm too cowardly to ever ask.” He makes a confused face. “But as you can see, I can talk to the dead.”  
   
“But you're a troll?”  
   
“All of the dead speak the same language. Didn't take me very long to learn it.” You shrug.  
   
Jake is obviously humored, ducking his head to chuckle nervously. He seems to be coming around. You always enjoyed talking to kind people, although you wish that you could speak to them when they were alive.  
   
“I must say, I had always expected death to be much more traumatic. I'm feeling swell at the moment, despite having died less than an hour ago.” His focus returns to you. “Is every fellow like this?”  
   
You smile, a question you can answer.  
   
“Most people. Dying doesn't really traumatize, makes them wise instead. They realize that they still exist. They remember things and become the wisest soul you'll meet. Of course, some people just can't learn,” you say, pointing to the slavers. He chuckles.  
   
“I can see that not all trolls are out to get me. You're the nicest one I've met,” Jake says through his pearly teeth.  
   
“I've had plenty of trolls go after me,” you offhandedly replied.  
   
He frowns, squinting at you in suspicion. “Why would anyone pursue a young child like yourself? Correct me if I'm wrong, but you're a burgundy troll. Wouldn't that place you on the lower side of the hemospectrum?”  
   
You nod, bowing your head just a bit. “You see her over there?” You point to Vriska. Jake nods. “She's my friend, we're both slaves. Or at least, we used to be.”  
   
You turn back to Jake, face aghast. “Slaves?” You nod.  
   
“I think you might've seen her, but the glowing troll earlier is our caretaker. We call her the Dolorosa.” Light travels in the corner of your eyesight. It's the Dolorosa, darting through the dark foliage. You turn to grin at Jake a final time. “Speak of, it's her! I must be going now, nice meeting you!”  
   
Jake waves goodbye as you walk backward towards the Dolorosa. She gives you an peculiar look but bends at her hip to peck your forehead anyways. She does the same to Vriska. You laugh aloud. Tonight was a good night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are the trolls!  
> It might have been unclear how they escaped last chapter, so I wrote this.  
> (And also Aradia added such an irresistibly unique perspective, I mean, she can talk to the dead! We can catch a quick glimpse of Jake and he's okay, more or less)
> 
> (Also the trolls will be important laaaaaaater later on)


	3. Take a Body to its Home

BE THE RESTING CHILD==>

After Roxy had abruptly woken you up, you attempted to sleep again. You couldn’t. You were plagued with nightmares. You returned to bantering with Rose, the discussion didn’t dare venture towards the incident. Roxy vanished, presumably so that she could hasten your journey northeast. No one bothers you, and you thank Rose.  
   
By dawn, you were rolling past the maturing winter wheat, the frigid snow seemed to reign centuries ago. You find yourself drifting in and out of focus, the fields endless.  
   
By midday, Rose rests her head on your lap. Her temples are pressed against your leg. You can feel the throb of her migraine against your lap, so you take her headband and comb your fingers through her hair. That’s what Dirk would do. There’s a rumbling in your stomach, and you suspect that Rose heard it, but you refuse to leave the carriage to converse with anyone except Rose. You stare at the fields of green and gold. _Green and gold_. You look skywards.  
   
Finally, with an hour to dinner, you start seeing a sprinkling of shabby homes. They glow with golden light. You only see them for a moment before you’re ripped forward by Roxy’s magic. By nightfall, you’ve passed dozens of towns. You suspect that you're close to the castle, but again you would never know. Your suspicions are confirmed when a crow cackles. You gently hoist Rose off of you and lay her against the opposite wall.  
   
“Dave?” she mumbles, curling against the wall. Her head bobbles as she searches for a headrest.  
   
Upon cracking the door open, Roxy’s crow clamors in, violently flapping its wings. Your syrupy ambiance is shattered immediately. Prospitian heat attempts to surge in but Roxy chokes its entry. You shriek, ducking for cover as the crow caws. Rose screams with you, all fatigue thrown aside. Then the crow settles where you were previously resting, preening its feathers as if it didn’t catapult itself into your carriage. You grab the bird around its middle.  
   
“Roxy! What was that‽” you pout, wrinkling your nose in disdain. “Scared the livin’ shit outta me!”  
   
The crow caws, almost humorously. _“Sorry Starshade, couldn’t stick the landing,”_ Roxy chuckles. The crow caws its own raspy rendition. _“But you're approaching Prospit’s castle. You two mind yourselves when you're there. Listen to Janey, since she's royalty an’ all. But if she gets too nosey, tell her t’ mind her business.”_  
   
“Roxy,” you butt in, “Roxy we know all of that. We're two fine lil’ angels, still primed and perfect, not a blemish on our souls or a drop of wine on our lips.” Rose stifles a laugh as you cross your fingers. She climbs next to you.  
   
_“I know, but I'm worried about the two of ya. And Starshade, mind your tongue, it's not highly looked upon.”_  
   
For a moment, you want to protest, but again the people of Prospit don't seem to take kindly to vulgar language. You hunch over, grumbling. “Fine, Roxy.”  
   
_“Ah, thank you. Now I gotta go. You've half an hour ‘till you arrive. Love you, Davey. Tell Starspinner that she can have a tiny bit of alcohol if she'd like. Watch her if she does, got it?”_ You nod. The crow extends its wings. You reach over with your left arm and unlock the door.  
   
“Love you too, Roxy. I'll be sure t’ tell her.”  
   
The crow leaps into the darkness, blending in perfectly and invisible in a fraction of a second. The only way you would have know it existed was its caws.  
   
“So?” Rose inquires, sidling closer to your side. You retell the conversation in your own words and Rose gets the gist. She gives an eloquently exhausted “Oh,” and returns her head to your lap. You suppose that you could try to sleep. The lights of Prospit had flickered out a while ago and you could only stare into a consuming abyss. Tilting your head back, you closed your eyes.  
   
You're awakened by Rose prodding your shoulder. It must've been a shorter distance than Roxy reported.  
   
“Dave, we’ve arrived. Dave, wake up now.” You whine and push her away. “Dave, come on now! Let's get to a proper bed.” After a few more incentives, you straighten up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. She plays with her hair, unsure of herself. You unsuccessfully try to sit still. You find yourself drumming your fingers on your thigh.  
   
“Now or never,” you say, reaching over to where the castle’s candles illuminate the carriage. Their warm glow is only a forewarning of the stifling heat. Cracking the door open, heat floods the room. You wince, the magical spell retaining the Dersite cold shattering. Heat sapped your energy, and you were only sitting! You scowl, facing Rose who does the same. You jump off of the steps, Rose following behind you.  
   
You stretch, alleviating the ache in your limbs from sitting for a whole day. “It's so hot. Rose, I was right it's so hot.” You continue babbling about how uncomfortably warm it was, Rose hums in agreement.  
   
“Excuse me, your Royal Highnesses,” a voice pipes up from the balconies. Looking up, your eyes meet with the Queen of Prospit’s. Head still angled to catch her gaze, you bow. From the shuffling behind you, you assume Rose curtsies. You take a step back to align with her.  
   
“Why hello, Queen Jane,” Rose greets. Instead of looking up, she bows her head, her face veiled with shadows. You hastily follow her example, your downcast eyes roaming the cobblestone flooring of the courtyard. “We thank you for housing us during such a time of crisis.” Rose has certainly rehearsed those words.  
   
Jane chortles. “Oh you two are so silly, you don't have to bow!” Your eyes stay settled on the ground, but you straighten your posture. She quickly descends the stairs. You are still uneasy. Dirk has never formally introduced you to royalty, he has always shielded you away. You were not aware of the formalities between royalty. Rose, however, is far more knowledgeable so you follow her footsteps. You ardently hope that courtesies don't drastically differ between genders in Prospit.  
   
“I must inquire,” Jane starts, and a pit of nervousness opens. You are far outside of your comfort zone. “What is this time of crisis you speak of if it concerns the younger Derse royalty?” Rose crosses her arms behind her back; you play with the hem of your tunic.  
   
“It concerns not us, but our caretaker and your prince, Jake.” Rose’s voice wobbles. Neither of you look her in the eyes, preferring anywhere but. The room is charged with dread, the heat pressing your clothes to your skin. You hear no indication of shock from Jane.  
   
“The matter concerns Jake? What is the issue you speak of?” Jane is not as upbeat, but rather cautious, which does nothing to soothe the tense atmosphere. You bite your lips.  
   
“He is dead,” you blurt, smothering Rose’s certainly gentler response. This incites a quick inhale from Jane.  
   
“Dead?” she gasps, incredulous. “Surely that isn't true! Jake could never… he couldn't possibly…” Her composure melts, not unlike your own. Your grasp on your tunic tightens, the anxious sweat combined with heat sticks said tunic to your back. The adrenaline makes your hands quake despite your nails biting into your palms.  
   
You swallow thickly, the grief caught in your throat after your heart pumped it up. “It's true. We had both saw it.” It's a half-truth. Rose saw it; you felt it. All the same, Jane breaks into tears.  
   
She excuses herself and rightly so. When she scales the steps, you feel Rose’s piercing gaze. When you face her, however, it is anything but. Her composure has dissipated into a red, blotchy face and stuttering sobs. She is not hunched over, but she is still crooked with grief.  
   
You've rarely seen your sister cry, and even then you doubt the veracity of your vision and circumstance.  
   
Would it be appropriate to do the same? To release the… you don't know. To release the choked emotions you have. You've diagnosed shock to some extent, but there is another barrier behind that. It's a sturdier, dominating force. No, for comfort’s sake, you will uphold your sister and your word.  
   
You sit crisscross in front of her, beckoning her to do the same. Rose, abnormally docile, folds in on herself and trusts you to catch her. When you hold her hand, however, murky pressure echoes in your head. Swallowing the urge to flinch, you assure her descent before you gauge your nausea. Rose must have felt it too because she scoots away from you. The echoes reverberate into a cacophony at a record pace. Rose shakily arises and you do the same. You ricochet from Rose, the echoes fading as the distance grows.  
   
You spot her huddled in a corner of the courtyard, her face stuffed into her arms. You find your back pressed into a wall. There was no way that you would approach her.  
   
“Rose!” you call. She gives a defeated one-handed wave. “Rose, Roxy said that alcohol was alright, r’member? I-I’ll go get somebody, hold on tight.”  
   
You edge along the wall, careful to not focus on the residual horrorterror tides left behind in your brain. Rather, you focus on the spires and marigold bricks of Prospit. You notice how the castle is far from symmetrical. The ocean seemed alive this time of year, the whispering of waves barely scaling the looming castle walls. Wait, don't think of waves. You don't focus on the heat, you've done enough of that. Your nose wrinkles at all of the frog imagery. Frogs disgust you, except when they're dead.  
   
Your feet dutifully find themselves at a stairwell and continue to appease you when they jog up the uneven steps. Uneven, huh. You're more focused on not tripping up the stairs as you hastily ascend. At the top, it hits you that you have no idea what you're doing. You just follow your senses. If you recall, the King of Prospit recently died in the kitchen, reasons why unknown(You know exactly why). You ignore the stab of compunction for using a man’s death place as a landmark and plow through the hallways to get anywhere near the kitchen. Ironically, the recent passing of horrorterrors piqued your abilities. You narrow down on the kitchen, your senses invaded by the remnants of dinner. Not even in the damn room and you can smell the hearty Prospitian cuisine. You figure that from here, the wine cellar should be in proximity. At worst, the wine cellar was only accessible via kitchen entryway. At best, it was an adjacent stairwell down.  
   
You're extra lucky tonight because the wine cellar is an adjacent flight of stairs down. Trembling, you take the stairs two at a time. Damn adrenaline, making you anxious from the inside out! You figure that no one has recently been in the wine cellar by the dead candles. You sigh—another reason why Prospit vastly differed from Derse. Easing a candle from its sconce, you dash from the scene before anyone noticed its absence. At least there was some reason to not constantly light candles in Prospit, as they radiate a dreadful heat.  
   
Swallowing your inner monolog, you hunt for a proper wine. A wine that was ancient, at least dating back to your grandfather’s reign… Your face contorts when you notice that they're all corked. Prospit has been in disparity for generations, but you assumed that they at least screwed their wines. You find a wine from Lolar, a generous guess. You eye the wine, and scratch at the cork. Fuck no. You sweep the room for a corkscrew, jumping on the first one you see. Unscrewing the cork, you're hit with a plain, slightly sweet smell. Swirling the wine, you notice that it's fruity and concede. Potent, yet not alcoholic enough to immediately send her into slumber. It's a deal.  
   
You tread cautiously through the castle halls yet again, but this time through you have a bottle of decent wine stashed under an arm. Shit. You have no point of reference now. How the fuck were you going to find Rose? See, you were being an idiot for thinking that infiltrating Prospit would be a walk. Or—or you could use Jake. Your stomach flips uneasily but it's what you have to do to aid your sister.  
   
You hone in on his presence. His body was taken with you to Prospit, so you focus. You calm your shaky, adrenaline-filled breaths. Your hands tremble but you uncover Jake’s location. Quickly, you return to your sister.  
   
“Rose!” you whisper harshly under your breath. “Rose, I'm back.”  
   
She blearily looks up. You hand her the bottle, careful not to brush fingers. She hums with pleasure, but she's hiding something. “You forgot to get a cup, Dave.” Oh. That explains it.  
   
“Do you really need a damn cup because I'm not going back just for a nic—”  
   
“Language,” she murmurs.  “Also, I'm fine with the wine as it is. I just don't want to drink too much.” You hadn't bothered to recap the bottle, so she eyes it uneasily before tipping her head back. She grimaces, her lips puckering up.  
   
“I know,” you mutter. “They're all corked.”  
   
“How much was ‘just a bit’ last time? To the base of the neck?” she asks instead, swirling the wine absently. Your facial expression doesn't budge a bit, but inside you're tumultuous. Alcohol was not good for Rose. It was only a last resort for when both Dirk and Roxy were away. It was especially insidious when you were not allowed to touch each other.  
   
“Rose,” you scoff, “that was when we were nine. I think you have a good estimate.” She airily nods in agreement. Her head bobs, sleep encroaching on her conscious. The horrorterrors have certainly taken a toll.  
   
In rare moments, you were unable to touch or be anywhere remotely close to one another in fear of amplifying migraines and stress. These episodes stemmed from the growth of your royal abilities. Those abilities dictated your royalty in the first place. That did not mean that they were pleasant in any measure. You suffer from the anxiety alone, between your separation and the pain associated with it. Rose’s migraines are unbearable, so much so that Dirk has to summon for multiple elixirs and remedial candles just to put her to rest.  
   
You sigh. With your sister to soon be inebriated, Jake’s death, Roxy’s concern, and Jane’s outburst, you were drearily exhausted. You set out to find Jane, but not before gingerly coaxing Rose back to the carriage. Rose molds into you in her exhaustion and you have to pry her off of you, nimbly lifting her by her sleeves. You take the wine from her grasp. She has already drained the wine a bit farther than the base. You sigh again, leaving the bottle on the floor in case she needed it.  
   
Leaping out of the carriage, you wonder how you'll ever catch anyone’s attention. The issue is settled when a elderly woman rounds the corner and beckons you near. She squints, presumably because eyeglasses are expensive.  
   
“Hello,” she says through a homely smile. She wears a modest dress, but there are multiple sewn patches of color that signal its age. You uneasily edge away and she notices. She curtsies and holds her arm out. “I'm Ms. Paint.”  
   
You eye her hand, unsure what to do. Ms. Paint hollers merrily. “Oh you Dersites!” She takes one hand and you shake and oh. Rose had told you about Prospitian customs when she had discovered that Jake would live with you. Your face burns in embarrassment. “Don't worry about it, darling.”  
   
“I’m looking for Jane,” you mumble. You look anywhere but her.  
   
“Oh, I was sent to bring you and your sister to your rooms. Excuse Jane for her outburst too,” Ms. Paint says glumly. She waddles to the carriage and you trail behind her like the curious kittens Roxy houses. She doesn't mention the clearly Prospitian wine or Rose’s bruises. She doesn't question the torn cushions or the dented door frame.  
   
You're unsure for a moment when she moves to coddle Rose. Nowadays, it was hard for even Dirk to lift one of you. She wordlessly hands her candle to you and lifts Rose with practiced ease. When Ms. Paint sees your bewildered face she chortles.  
   
“Did you question my strength?” she jokes light-heartedly. She winks as if she was letting you in on a secret. “I grew up on the countryside and believe me, your sister is nothing compared to good, hard labor.”  
   
Ms. Paint carries Rose bridal-style to the parapet, ascending the stairs two at a time.  On the parapet, you catch a glimpse of the sprinkling of deciduous trees and even if you can't see the fields in the scarce light, you know they're there. You follow as she turns to the hallways, closer to the center, you notice.  
   
Ms. Paint leads you to a homely room. It is not excessively grandiose, but it is not plebeian either. She opens the window to facilitate airflow and allow the moonlight to seep in. Meanwhile, you lounge on the furniture, Rose on the bed. You appreciate the oak furnishings and loose, golden clothing Ms. Paint provided. You would sequester yourself away to change later when you knew that Ms. Paint was watching Rose. Ms. Paint yanks the curtains to free them of dust one last time, and you silently excuse yourself.  
   
To your horror, there are tender bruises on your shins. You wince when you poke at them. You search your body for any other wounds. You don’t find anything else, but you do find that your body aches. In an attempt to loosen them, you stretch your limbs and vaguely feel the pain ease away.  
   
When you hastily return, you find that Ms. Paint is gone and you’re mildly irritated and frightened, but she returns and explains that she simply went to make tea in the next room over. You nod. You're exhausted, you realize. You crawl in bed, a lacuna between you and Rose. You accept Ms. Paint’s tea offer, slightly disgruntled by its bitter quality, but it is soothing nevertheless. You aren't sure when you fall asleep, no one is, but you are sure that Ms. Paint waits for you to sleep before she returns to the room next to yours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so I'm beginning to stretch some of ASAFAF's canon. (Well I already did in the last chapters, but shhh)  
> In ASAFAF, they are just irritated, like before Jake is ambushed when Dave notices that Jake and Dirk aren't talking.  
> But here, they get headaches to the point where they can't even be around the other. This will be more important later on.
> 
> (also I have a ridiculous amount already written and planned, so I have a general idea of what's going to happen.)


End file.
